Sandstone Tower
by Splintered Star
Summary: The Crown Prince of Ancheim hated being dragged out to Royal Events, but there might be someone worthwhile at this party… Pregame, preslash.


A beautiful young woman laughed nearby, stars glittering in her hair and around her neck. The scent of jasmine hung heavily in the air, mixed with the scent of the desert – sand, and the faint promise of water. Anyone who had the slightest bit of influence – or planned to acquire some – congregated in front of the Grand Clock. Politics occurred under the guise of gossip and small talk, deals struck in half-glances and the tilt of a smile. Soon, there would be dancing.

It was /disgusting/.

The Crown Prince, Eloch Khamer the 8th, sat sullenly at his table and glared at everyone. This whole affair was a waste of that most precious resource, time. He had almost mastered a new spell when some servant burst into his labs and dragged him out here, and why? To watch aristocrats flatter his father, and his father flatter the Vestal.

He narrowed his eyes at the Vestal in particular, gaze catching on the understated gold stitching on the edge of her dress. Paid for from his coffers, surely. The king – his father – was growing old, and lavished offerings on the Wind Temple. As if those charlatans would give him anything in return, even if they could. They probably considered the gold their due for long-ago insults. He snorted, tugged a pen out of his pocket, and grabbed a napkin. If he had to be dragged out for this farce, he could at least get something done.

His pen scratched against the fabric, black ink against white, linkages and calculations forming a more beautiful picture than the dancers in front of the Grand Clock could ever manage. He smiled, very faintly, as an equation came out the way he expected.

The reveal of the Grand Clock was the one tolerable part of the night. While the Vestal and her minions had praised the clock face, the display of some ridiculous Crystalist myth was just a disguise for the brilliant clockwork hidden inside. It was the most accurate clock ever designed, and efficient as well -powered by surplus energy generated by the windmill. Mythril steel gears would survive even the worst sandstorms and provide extra force. It was a marvel of modern engineering, surely the envy of every civilized country. Not that the Crystalists would appreciate it.

He glowered at a servant who refilled his spiced drink before escaping, and then continued sketching. Wine might have made the night more enjoyable, but with all these Crystalists about there was no chance. Absently, he sketched the composition for explosives – miners in Eisenburg used them to clear tunnels, but he thought that with just a little bit of tweaking to the composition...

"Greetings, your highness." He looked up from his sketching, annoyed at the interruption. A Crystalist official come here to gloat, probably.

But the man was no Crystalist. He was some foreigner, his accent unfamiliar– no indication, as the Orthodoxy transplanted people as it wished – but he wore none of the flowing robes or crystal pendants that were the marks of office in the Church. Instead, he wore a fitted suit, with a gold chain leading into a pocket. Blond hair was slicked back, and perched on top was small, understated top hat that nevertheless gleamed with gold.

Eloch snorted, ignoring the fact that the young man was cute in a sort of smarmy way. "Greetings. And you are?"

The man slid into the chair opposite him easily, as brave as anything. The Prince smelled cedar wood – the man's cologne? Intriguing. "Eretus Profituer, your highness. I am businessman visiting your fair land."

Well, as least he was reasonably polite. The Prince rolled his eyes regardless. "Lured here by our sand and religion, I'm sure."

His guest only smiled and gestured to the Grand Clock. "And your wonders."

Ah, the Clock. The Prince smiled in pleasure as he looked at it, the perfectly-kept time ticking over the murmurs of conversation. It'd taken him a year to design it, lost in switches and gear ratios, and another year to squirrel away enough of the budget to get the materials for it, making numbers dance around on paper like sands in the desert.

The king never asked where he got enough money for mythril steel, thank the crystal. The old fool was too busy trying to flatter his way into the vestal's favor. And if some of the money used to build the clock had been earmarked for church donations...

"It's a magnificent piece," The stranger said, smiling over a glass of spiced tea, "I heard rumors zat you financed it?" Dancers swirled underneath the clock's face, hardly any of them looking up at it. Eloch's lips twisted down. The man glanced at the napkin where Eloch had, half-consciously, been doodling the calculations for a better gear ratio for the Grand Mill next to a rough sketch of a tank originally designed by a famous Florem artist. His expression shifted. "…Or did you design it?"

Eloch blinked, once, covering his doodling with a hand. "…I did." He finally said, surprised into honesty. No one had bothered to ask, before. "…the old one was inaccurate," He added, feeling the need to explain himself.

"Ah, zat is a good reason to update!" The stranger's smile was wide and charming. Probably a show, but the Prince appreciated the effort. So few people bothered trying. "And yet, you are still working on new ideas." He gestured to the half-covered sketches with his free hand.

The Prince smiled, privately glowing under the attention. "There is much to be done. The Grand Mill is outdated and inefficient." He rubbed his thumb over the tank sketch, narrowing his eyes – could he take the risk? The dancers swirled around them, too quickly for any to hear more than snippets. He knew little of this man, but he had a suspicion of his loyalties. "It is my duty to lead my country into the future," he hedged.

Erutus smiled over his refilled drink, acknowledgement in the twist of his expression. "You have great plans for zis country, your majesty." Eloch didn't miss the change in address, and tried not to preen. "But surely such great progress will come at a cost."

The Prince smirked. The party around them was all but forgotten. "I have my ways."

Erutus ran his thumb over the edge of his drink, his head tilted coyly. "If you are ever in need of a backer, your majesty…" He smiled like a desert jackal. "I have found myself in possession of a windfall."

Eloch smiled back with the same jackal-smile. He sipped at his spiced tea for a long moment, enjoying the smell of anise, and asked, "For 10% of the profits?"

The man blinked and then let out a delighted laugh. Eloch liked the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. "So generous, your majesty! No, 5% at /most/."

Eloch chuckled, almost against his will. Such a charming fellow, this merchant – well worth being dragged away from his lab for. The Prince inclined his head, still smiling. "I need no investors… yet." Erutus raised his eyebrows. "But if I ever do, I will remember you."

The foreigner tipped his hat in an exaggerated bow, grinning. "Zat is all I ask, your majesty." He raised his glass above the table between them. "To progress?"

The Prince smiled widely. A western gesture, but an appropriate one.

"To progress," he agreed and, as dancers and the smell of jasmine twisted around them, tapped the glass with his own.


End file.
